Resurrection
by swik
Summary: *Equilibrium* [CONCLUSION] In a society where peace is the ultimate form of violence, who has the power to set us free? ["There, in the most dangerous place - she was the first one he saw without the lie."]
1. Part 1 of 4

Title: Resurrection

Based on: "Equilibrium," starring Christian Bale and Emily Watson.  Written and directed by Kurt Wimmer.

Author: swik

Summary: In a society where peace is the ultimate form of violence, who has the power to set us free?  (An alternate scenario based on characters and situations from the movie.)

Disclaimers:  As they say in Hollywood, 'inspired' by the 2002 genre film "Equilibrium."  The characters are borrowed without permission, but I promise to return them safely.  Consider this an alternate treatment where the lead female protagonist survives.  Otherwise, the setting and the characters remain pretty much the same.  Apologies to writer/director Kurt Wimmer and the studio in advance.  As if anyone really pays attention to this crap anyway...

The first draft was a shadow.  The second, a _story.  In between, there was an editor.  Thanks, KW, for helping make this into the best it could be..._

"Equilibrium" Plot Summary (from IMDB) -- In a futuristic world, a strict regime has eliminated war by suppressing emotions.  Books, art and music are strictly forbidden and feeling is a crime punishable by death.  Cleric John Preston (Bale) is a top ranking government agent responsible for destroying those who resist the rules. When he misses a dose of Prozium, a mind-altering drug that hinders emotion, Preston, who has been trained to enforce the strict laws of the new regime, suddenly becomes the only person capable of overthrowing it.

***************************

"We are an impossibility in an impossible universe."

      -- Ray Bradbury

***************************

They are ten days past her scheduled burning.

Mary sits in her cell and stares.  Her eyes pick apart the minute imperfections in the concrete wall opposite her.  She cannot understand why they are late.  The Hall of Destruction is notoriously precise in carrying out its sentences. 

She wonders idly if the Cleric has something to do with it.  He seems to feel connected to her somehow, though why exactly, she does not know.

But she has heard he was arrested.  The Underground maintains its network even within the internment.  And the way it was told, he was taken sometime shortly after their last meeting together.

Mary frowns, relaxing her concentration slightly.

He should have known better than to touch her.  Everybody knows that interrogations are carefully videographed.  Off his interval, he was her last hope.  A focus, a center -- a riddle that kept her brain sharp and her nerves intact trying to solve it.  Now, he is gone.

She wonders again at the delay.

How could it have come to this?  Twelve years of dedication and struggle -- of beating the system, of _living_ -- reduced to a pathetic countdown of the last seconds of her life.

She will not fight them when they come.  The Pentothal trips of the last week have taken their toll on her resolve.  They didn't get much beyond a précis of William Gibson, which is as it should be.  But Mary understands now that there will never be any escape from this ordeal.  No freedom for her ever again.  They have destroyed her life as she knew it.  That is their victory.  

Dying will be hers. 

There is a murmur of voices on the other side of the door and her consciousness slowly expands.  Perhaps they are here at last.  Perhaps it is time.

She stands as the door swings open and bows her head, ready to meet her fate.  They will want her to don the robes, she thinks.  Ridiculous.  Like the fucking Carousel on Logan's Run.  One day, DuPont and the Council will wake up to the fact that they haven't had a single original idea in their entire existence.  Maybe then Libria can come alive.

Mary raises her head.  Time seems to stutter and stand still.

He is standing right there inside her cell -- a blurred silhouette against the twenty-four hour glare.  John Preston, Tetragrammaton Cleric First Class.  Come to collect her for...processing.  

Her breath catches.  She looks into his dark, fathomless eyes.  The roar of her pulse rushes wildly in her ears.  

So, the rumors were incorrect.  Or they've changed the rules of the game on her yet again.  Did they...could they have released him just for this? 

She longs to ask the question, but he is, after all, a Cleric.  She knows he will not answer.

Instead, he beckons to her with a gloved hand.  She steps forward and he secures the manacles on her wrists.  His touch is restrained.  Maybe even gentle.  

But his expression does not change, although she is staring openly at him now.  Instead, he takes her elbow with a polite grip and leads her to the door.

"It's time to go," he says.  His voice is flat.  Somehow, she senses they are not going to the furnaces.

Unbelievable.

The Sweeper Rank and File does nothing but stand in silence as he escorts her from the building.

************

Mary watches him furtively as he drives.  The washed out light of a leaden sky filters through the tinted windows.  Dull vidscreens flicker as Father spews the Ministry version of lies.

Gray, she thinks.  All gray, all the time.  The colors are all gone.  Their brave new world went mad long ago, and all that is left now is the gray.

Colors were something she was good at once.  Even with the Prozium, she was aware of them always.  Red, blue, yellow, green -- so rich she could taste them like the finest vintage on her tongue.

No longer.  

And now there is the Cleric.  He is a study in contrasts -- dressed all in black, skin deathly pale.  Whiter than the last time she saw him.  Dark hair falls across his forehead in thick slashes -- not slicked back as it was before.  His face is still as beautiful as she remembers.  But he is thinner now.  And his eyes are rimmed with shadows as deep as bruises.

He looks tired.  

Mary cannot remember ever seeing a Cleric looking tired, but there it is.

What does he want with her?  Why is she here?

Confusion throbs at her temples; the ache of returning sensation.  

She is attuned to every move he makes as he steers his way through the horde.  Heaven help her, she can hear his very breath.  She can _smell_ him in the closed space of the car.  Flesh and blood and the crisp velvet silk of his uniform.  

And something else, she thinks.  Like alcohol...and wintergreen.  It is nothing more than the antiseptic compound they clean up with during internment.  Yet the sharp scent seems to suit him perfectly.

Her blood thickens with awareness.  Until she looks at him.

The Cleric's eyes are lifeless.  Colder than even the first time -- when he came with the Rank to arrest her.  To tear down everything she has ever loved.

It is the Prozium, she reflects with a sinking heart.  They've taken him and dosed him.  And now they are using him to get to her.

Her jaw tightens as she lets the anger flow.  After all, he is no Trinity.  And the Council is deluding itself if they think she will follow the White Rabbit that easily.

"I won't tell you anything," she blurts.  

Her words shatter like glass in the empty silence.

He looks at her for a moment.  "What?"

"I won't tell you," she says again.  "The chemicals didn't work.  Neither will this.  You think a stay of execution from this miserable society is a gift?"

He opens his mouth to reply, but she flips up a hand.  

"Wait.  I forgot.  You people are dead already."

Mary looks for something.  A contradiction.  Some change of expression.  Anything.  But the Cleric's stare is as cold and remote as the moon.

She tips up her chin.  "You'll never get anything from me about the Underground."

"I know," he says softly.  "I already told them that."

"What else did you tell them?" 

"As much as I had to."

Something terrible there, in the way he says the words.  Dark, clotted.  Like a spatter of warm blood across her face.  

Mary wonders immediately if she has made a mistake.

He did come to her, after her arrest.  Over and over again.  Why?  She gave him nothing he hadn't already guessed.  And still he came.

The suffering in his eyes that last time cut through her defenses cleanly.  He was off his interval and he was fucked.  They both knew it.  His desperation called to everything that made her who she was.

And then, he touched her.  

In a heartbeat, she was vulnerable, exposed -- emotion unfurling too quickly for her to save herself.  When he left her, she prayed she might never have to see him again -- to be laid bare to the enemy that way.

But she had.  Thoughts of him had filled the grim, empty hours more completely than anything else.

There was more.

Mary recalls the days that followed -- the time when the techs threw her back into her cell after her final review.  She lay sprawled, on the floor -- gasping, feverish -- strung out on a potent mixture of methylenedioxy and scopolamine, barely able to remember her own name.

He came to her then, the Cleric.  In her dreams.  Erotic visions -- dark and disturbing -- prowling unfettered through her mental landscape.

She can still summon every thought, every sensation.

And now he is next to her.

Real.

Does she affect him the same way?  Does he feel her?  

She cannot be sure.  Because to feel the same, he must first _have the capacity to feel._

If only he would give her something; some sign that he is still the human being she once glimpsed.  But there is nothing.

In any case, they have reached his home at last.

(cont'd...)


	2. Part 2 of 4

************

The Cleric lives on the eighteenth floor of a Librian high-rise whose very understatement reeks of privilege.  At least as much privilege as anybody is legally entitled to in this society, Mary thinks scornfully.

They make the trip to his unit in silence.

She absorbs every detail with an eye toward potential escape.  Not that getting away now would do her a damn bit of good.  They are all fugitives to one degree or another.  All prisoners.  Even the pride of an Underground that merely frees itself as much as the Ministry will tolerate.

Still, old habits die hard.  Apparently, so does she.

The Cleric removes the cuffs and ushers her through his door stiffly.  Her stomach turns at the bleakness of the place.  Straight lines and sharp edges -- all of it grayscale -- etched in perfect relief.  Even the sterile air suffocates.

A light blanket of dust over everything is the only evidence of imperfection.

Once more, Mary finds herself confused.  The air of neglect seems to support the theory that they detained him against his will.  But if so, why have they let him go?  And why her as well?

They burn every other fucking thing.  She cannot imagine them making an exception for a fallen Cleric, let alone a lowly sense offender like herself. 

He is moving from room to room now, turning on the occasional light as he goes.  She takes a few moments to simply observe him.

The Cleric moves with the poise and skill of a born predator.  She has watched enough wild animals in the Nether to know.  There is beauty in that, she thinks.  A kind of pure, natural perfection.

Her pulse quickens with the pleasure of it.  

Fascination, she thinks.  The spark.  It has always been her greatest weakness.  Color and texture, sound and movement, motivation and discovery.  A desire to stand toe to toe with that which challenges her most.  With the Order.  First Partridge and now him.

Her brother Jurgen used to say it would be the death of her.  

If he only knew...

Mary closes her eyes.  

Everything about this particular Cleric screams that they've put him back into balance, but a part of her needs to be sure.

"Please, have a seat."  

His voice explodes inside her head.  She flinches, in spite of herself.  Her eyes snap open and she sees him standing a few feet away, regarding her closely.

"Mary?" 

"Yes," she responds, focusing on the point between his eyes.

"I said, have a seat.  I need to make arrangements for my children."

He turns away and slides a communicator from his pocket, dialing the citycode with the same swift economy as he does everything else.

Children, she thinks, suppressing a shudder.  In a saner, more rational time, it would be criminal to raise children in an environment like this.

Still, she should not be surprised.  She knows a little bit about Cleric Preston.  Probably more than he realizes.  Partridge worked with him for nearly six years.  And near the end, as Partridge unraveled, his name would come up from time to time.

He has two children, she recalls.  A boy and a girl.  His son is already a student of the Monastery.  His daughter is a walkway inquisitor.

The Cleric himself is intuitive, perceptive; preternaturally so.  At one time, he was ideologically pure.  Uncompromising beyond fault.  Several of the Order actually feared him, Partridge told her.  All of them admired him.

And for people who have spent the whole of their lives not feeling much of anything, that fear and admiration is telling.  He connected with them somehow.  Unintended, perhaps...but the potential was there.

Jurgen, an Underground leader, figured him for a regular Guy Montag at one point.  Partridge's personal evaluation certainly seemed to indicate the possibility.

In fact, Partridge was working on that when the Cleric retired him, she reminds herself, feeling sick.

For Mary knows that he also stood by and let them burn his wife four years ago for Sense Offense. 

He is speaking to somebody in another room on his communicator.  His bedroom, she guesses.  She slinks toward the sound and eavesdrops without a second thought.

The Cleric is demanding to know the whereabouts of his son and daughter.  He wants them returned to his custody immediately.  Mary's fingers clench at the way his voice rings with authority without changing volume or even inflection.

That in itself may tell her all she needs to know.

He threatens the person on the other end with some type of Ministry Newspeak, which seems to work.  But he must settle for them coming back no earlier than first thing in the morning.

Well now, she thinks scathingly.  They are giving him his life back.  Things will go back to normal for him.

So why is she here?

He ends the call and looks right at her.  Mary suddenly realizes that she is standing in the doorway.  More than that, she is standing there incensed.

Her eyes narrow.  The black and white precision of their surroundings comes into sharper focus -- pissing her off even more.

This man took her life away before she was ready to give it up.  Now, he has forced it back on her when she no longer has any use for it.

Only a Cleric, she thinks, could be that damnably exact.

Acceptance has never been her forte.  By the pen of Atwood, she would not have made a good Handmaid.  And drugged or not, nobody said she had to make this easy for him. 

"Well, Cleric," she says to him through her teeth.  "You seem to have things well in hand."

"You think?" he asks, watching her.  He does not move a muscle.

"I think I'd like to know just what the fuck it is I'm doing here with you, instead of being in a cell where I belong."

He takes a step towards her.  "They set you free because I asked them to."

Mary laughs, mirthlessly.  A lie, but what's the point of arguing?  She is in fact very far from freedom.  The only thing that really matters is what to do next.

"Why am I _here_, Cleric?"

He halts a few feet away.

"Where else would you go?"  His voice softens just a fraction.  "They swept your quarters shortly after the arrest.  There's nothing left for you to go back to."

"I have other resources," she snaps.

Something changes, but she cannot say what it is.  The Cleric closes in on her.  Before she can stop him, he grips her by the elbow and drags her into the room.

"The Underground?"  He lets go of her and shakes his head.  "And lead the Ministry directly to them?  Or maybe even me?"

His voice drops an octave, becoming smoother.  Seductive almost.  He says, "You aren't stupid, Mary.  And you can't fool me into thinking you are."

Mary crosses her arms.  She will not be intimidated.  "Cleric..."

He cuts her off, pressing a cool finger to her lips.

"Preston," he says, so faintly she must strain to hear him.  "My name is John Preston.  You know that already."

"Cleric Preston," she begins again--

With one swift move, he grabs her by the shoulders, propelling her backwards, until she is pinned between his body and the wall.

Her breath leaves her in a sharp gasp.  Her heart races against his chest.  She grips his forearms.  The black silk of his shirt slides over flesh and bone as unyielding as forged steel.

He tilts his head and moves in close to her ear.  "Why don't you ask me what you really want to know?"  

His lips just barely graze her cheek as he whispers:

"Am I back on my interval?  Do I feel?"

The last word is punctuated by the thrust of his hips against her lower body.  Mary bites her lip as she feels the hard length of his cock pressing into her belly.

Good lord.

"I can feel you, Mary."  

His fingers trace the curve of her neck, stroking over the frantic beat of her pulse.  

Just like that, her world is on fire, all senses awake to what she knows this time is real.

Mary meets his gaze.  He blinks, and the veil falls away.  Suddenly, she can see everything.  Fear, doubt, pain...even exhaustion.  From what she isn't sure.  

But Preston's dark eyes are incredibly expressive when he lets them be.  Overlapping the other emotions is a shadow of desire so intense she can barely control her own response to it.

Mary swallows convulsively.  

Her body relaxes, softening against his.  She drags a desperate breath and turns her face until their lips inadvertently brush.  His head snaps up and he backs away.

They stare at each other warily for a few moments.

Then, Preston reaches into his pocket, startling her.

She sees the red velvet ribbon in his hand -- a bright flash of color in this drab and lonely place.

It is one of hers.  He has been carrying it all this time.  What does that mean?

She scrambles mentally, trying to fit all these pieces into some semblance of order.

Reflexively, Mary slides her hand over his hip, into the small of his back, drawing him close.  Somehow, that makes her feel more secure.  When she can feel him.  

Tension vibrates in his limbs.  She senses his fear.

Of her?  Or of himself? 

Reaching up, he ties the ribbon around her neck.  She sighs when his fingers slip beneath it, tightening against her throat.

"You know," he whispers.  "You know who I am."

Perhaps.  

For now, he is just a Cleric without an interval.  A Cleric testing the boundaries of his new experience.  Which is still pretty limited, she decides.  Even so, for one completely unschooled in the art of sexual awareness, he has learned remarkably fast.

Preston turns away without another word, leaving her alone.  

Mary rakes a hand through her hair, letting the rush subside.  Her limbs feel weighty in the aftermath.  There is still so much she doesn't know.  She takes a moment to collect herself before following him into the living room.

He has already collapsed on the couch, but his eyes automatically track her approach.

"I'm sorry."  He looks up at her, rubbing at his temple.  "I've been awake for over seventy-two hours.  I think the best thing would be for me to get some rest.  You understand?"

She nods.

Seventy-two hours, she thinks.  Over three days without sleep.  His control astounds her -- that even in a state of extreme fatigue, he could hide himself for so long.  And without the Prozium.

Extraordinary.

Yet she _saw_ what was in his eyes; felt the strength of his need pressed intimately to her flesh.  He would have liked to do more, she thinks.  If only he knew how.  

Mary wonders just how far Preston is willing to go.  How far would she?  

She jumps again as his hand suddenly darts out.  He grips her wrist.  "You can't even think about leaving here, Mary.  Your life would be forfeit the second you walked out that door."

His warning gives her pause.  She rocks back on her heels -- dizzy with the realization that all thought of escape or even the direness of her situation has vanished until now.  

Mary blinks, shrugs; trying to reorient herself.  Of course she cannot leave.  She will take his word for it.  But there needs to be more.  Surely even he can see that. 

"Preston," she says.  Her skin tingles in his grasp.  "What are we doing here?  How is this possible?"

He blows out a long breath and closes his eyes.  She can see him trying to work out exactly how much to reveal.

"The truth."  Her voice firms.  "Please."

Preston blinks before staring up at the ceiling.  His reluctance is palpable.  Then:  

"Father is dead," he tells her bluntly.

She gapes at him, speechless.  

He is looking straight at her now.  

"Father is dead," he says it again, more slowly.  "And I made a deal with the Council."

Goose-flesh prickles along her skin.  She curses silently.  Her gut tells her that he isn't lying.  Not about this.

Hell, it actually makes a terrible kind of sense.  Mary is no fool.  She is well-versed with the Underground's extensive media files -- cultural _and_ historical.  In the past, men in power have always hidden behind a singular vision of the ideal to shape the masses.

A perfectly logical set-up.  And the Council has always been about logic.

It's no longer enough to simply contain the resistance, she guesses.  DuPont has been doing that with his THX drones in the Order for years.  They must have decided to use the lure of a fallen Cleric to bait a trap that might crush the opposition for good.

Mary clutches her arms tightly around herself.

And what about Preston?  What must it have been like?  Discovering your whole life has been in service to a lie?

She measures him with a glance.

What have they promised him? she wonders.  And what will he do about it?

Because Mary can tell from the expression on his face that Preston isn't going to give them what they want.  Certainly not on their terms.  He seems to be ready to assure her of that, but she forestalls him with a raised hand.

"Forget it," she says, into the silence.  "You don't owe me any other explanations."

Preston's lips firm as he turns away.  Her heart twists.  He looks so very tired.

Mary remembers that moment in the car when she got a brief sense of what happened to him after his arrest.  They didn't kill him.  Yet the most brutal forms of attrition would almost certainly be assured.

And so he made this deal and they let him go.  Probably because DuPont knows he is the only man who can possibly get the job done.  

If he wants to.

So Preston is now in a unique position to put a great deal of pressure on them.  

And they on him, Mary reflects.

It's a dangerous game.  Taking on the Order?  She cannot conceive of why he would try.

What would be the point?  Getting the truth to the resistance?

Maybe.  

'Soylent Green is people,' Mary thinks wryly.  Another one of Jurgen's weird cultural references.

Will he tell Jurgen?

He may damn well try.

Mary shivers.  Because the Council could be waiting for him to do just that.  

And yet she wonders if DuPont and the others even remotely understand what it is they're dealing with in Cleric John Preston.

She is only now beginning to herself.

But their time here is limited.  Which explains why he doesn't want her to leave.  He can't protect her if she does.

That he wants to means more to her than she would have guessed.

"Go on, Preston," she murmurs, meeting his eyes one last time.  "I'll be here when you wake up."

He is asleep before she can finish the sentence, and Mary is no longer surprised to find that for now, she actually means it.

(cont'd...)


	3. Part 3 of 4

************ 

Preston is out of it for a long while.

It unsettles her to watch him there, asleep.  The tight concentration that normally marks his features is gone.  He looks vulnerable.  Innocent even.

Mary blows out a sharp breath.  Nothing could be more absurd.  The Cleric thrive on death and destruction.  Preston is hardly an exception.  No doubt he has killed hundreds -- more perhaps -- for no worse offense than wanting to be alive.

She waits to feel the familiar contempt for him and all his ilk, but it doesn't come.  Instead, what she feels is empathy.  That...and other things. 

Rising, she paces restlessly through his living space.  It would be wise to get a better handle on what she is dealing with here.  

Because she cannot help a certain level of respect for what Preston has done so far.  That little Prozium charade as he brought her home was virtually flawless.  It would seem he is determined to proceed very carefully.

Clearly, he has not given up yet.  But what about her?

A new kind of understanding is taking shape on the edges of her consciousness.  Mary frowns, scrolling through the actions and reactions of the past few hours.  Hers and his.  What does it all mean?  She is not certain.

But there is one thing she _is sure of.  She can feel it again, the spark.  _

Fascination.  Attraction.  

Her fingers drift to the soft velvet at her throat.

She wants to know more about John Preston. 

The thick rubber soles of her slip-ons make hardly a sound as she glides from room to room.  A cursory inspection yields nothing.  On the surface, everything is exactly as it should be.

Shadows lengthen as day turns into evening.  Eventually, Mary finds herself chilled.  His climate control is likely set at the requisite sixty-eight degrees, which is uncomfortable after the heat of her cell.

She heads back into his bedroom.  Preston's Clerical coat is draped across a chair.  She shrugs it on absently.  The thing nearly swallows her, but at least it is warm.  She wants to cuff the sleeves, but the weapons harness makes it awkward.  After a brief struggle, Mary simply gives up.

Her eyes scan the harsh, utilitarian corners of the room once more.  There are no photos of his children, and certainly none of his wife.  She didn't really expect there would be.

Mary bites her lip.  She wonders if he ever got far enough to keep a cache.

Maybe.

It takes her less than fifteen minutes to find it.  There is a hairline crack in the baseboard at the back of his closet.  After twelve years as a sense offender, she knows nearly all the tricks.

It surprises her, though.  A Search team would never locate this, but a Cleric might.  

Preston would know that of course, so whatever is in there must be worth the risk.

Mary pries off the molding.  She reaches into the wall and pulls out what looks like an ancient LP.  

She moves back into the room, toward the light.  Her eyes scan the album cover.  With a gasp and a smile, she covers her mouth.  It is all she can do to keep from laughing out loud.

The Ninth Symphony.

So, Preston found his way into the glory of responsiveness through the indomitable Ludwig Van.  

How very prosaic, she thinks.  Stanley Kubrick would be spinning in his grave if he knew.

Mary wishes she could share her delight with Jurgen.  He would undoubtedly appreciate this little irony.  

Oh, what she wouldn't give to lock Preston in with her at the Underground's garden of digital delights.  Immerse him into something a little less...refined.  Mahler, perhaps.  Or Morrison.

She closes her eyes for a second, remembering the sheer, compelling force of that kind of music.  Lyrics like poetry spray-painted across a catastrophic wall of sound. 

Mary sobers when she realizes that opportunity will probably never come.

Quickly, she goes to replace the LP in its hiding place.  When it meets some resistance, she reaches inside again.

This time, she comes up with a shattered volume of poetry by William Butler Yeats.  The ragged pages are spattered with what appears to be dried blood.

Partridge's blood, she thinks, shocked.  Preston actually kept the book after...

But he was still on his interval then.  She knows that.

Mary puts everything back in place with shaking hands.  If he kept the book while he was still dosed...

Had Partridge actually managed to get through to Preston _before_ he was killed?  Or was there something else all along?

Her eyes skip over the vacant sleeping pad next to his.  His wife's space.

Could he feel it when they took her away?  Could he feel it when she burned?

Perhaps Jurgen was right.  The family unit can hide a multitude of sins.  Perhaps there was always more to the Cleric than met the eye...

Even if he never knew it.

She heads for the children's room to verify what she already suspects.

There is nothing worth finding on the son's side.  Probably proof that the kid is smarter than all of them put together.  

The daughter is more creative than her father, but still susceptible to a motivated search.  Her cache is carefully tucked into her juvenile translation of the Manifesto.  A virtual menagerie of tiny origami creatures flutters into Mary's hand.  Rabbits, tigers, cranes -- as delightful as they are fragile.  A few of them fall to the floor.  Pastel hues of lemon, rose, and violet wink against the dark surface.

She puts them carefully back into their hiding place.  The Manifesto is the one spot a Cleric might not look, she thinks.  And the paper is soluble, easily disposed of.  Pretty clever, actually.  Perhaps the brother leant a helping hand.

A flood of recognition sweeps through her.  Mary suddenly recalls her own first forays into the realm of sense -- her earliest feelings.  She wasn't that young, but her happiness was nearly childlike in its simplicity.  Preston's daughter and likely his son have found that very same thing.  And they did it while under his watch -- the most intuitive Cleric of them all.  

How very interesting.

She wonders if Preston really and truly knows.  If he has allowed himself to know.

In any case, it is not her secret to divulge.  He will discover the treasure inside his children when the time is right.

With a deep breath, she stands upright.  She rubs a hand wearily across her forehead and catches Preston's scent again in the cloth.

Her body responds instantly.  Mary feels a sudden tightness in her throat.  She knows exactly what it means.  There is a growing warmth, an affinity for this man that she has never felt for anyone besides her brother.  The feeling is not necessarily welcome.  

Until today, it was nearly impossible for her to see him as anything but a Cleric.  Discovering his secrets -- the keys to his soul -- might be more than she bargained for.  Because now she must look at the enemy as an individual -- capable of many of the same things as she is.  

It is too much, she thinks.  Her release, his home, his family.  Look at how much he has done.

Understanding him forces her to know more about herself.  

Her shoulders ache with anxiety.

Before, she had pulled up stakes on the only kind of life she believed was worth living.  Now, she can only see how narrow that life had become.

Clerics, Sense Offenders...what fucking difference does it make?  They are all prisoners of the same reality.

She makes her way into the bathroom unsteadily and splashes water over her face.  The reflection in the mirror confirms what she already suspects.

Her blue eyes are wide, her cheeks are flushed.  The red ribbon Preston tied around her throat stands out; drawing her attention in a way it never has.

She cannot remember what it was like to wear that ribbon before he came.  Instead, all she can feel is the imprint of his fingers on her skin...

There is a sound from the other room.  Preston.  

With a deep breath, Mary turns and heads back to him.

(cont'd...)


	4. Part 4 of 4

************

An uneasy quality fills the apartment as she finds her way back to the living room.  Darkness has fallen and a steady rain now patters against the windows.  The dim light makes it harder for her to navigate the unfamiliar space.

Preston groans again, a tortured sound.  Mary finds him curled tightly on the couch, bathed in a cold sweat.

"Tell you," she hears him rasp.  "Won't.  Lies.  It's just a choice...always been..."

Every bone in his body seems to go rigid with pain.  Worried, she shrugs off the coat and sits next to him, gripping his hand.

At her touch, he sucks in a breath.  "Worth the price," he slurs.  "Gladly..."

Mary doesn't understand, can't make sense of what he needs.  She only knows he is in trouble.

"Preston," she says softly, laying a hand across his forehead.  "Cleric..."

He bolts upright at the title.  Eyes wide, he shoves her aside and rolls off the couch onto the floor.  He kneels into a tuck, pressing his forehead to the black tile, trembling violently. 

"Preston," she says again, careful to use only his name this time.  Her hand drifts across his back.  "It's okay.  You were only having a dream."

He doesn't respond.

"Preston.  Come on."  Her voice firms.  "John," she tries.  "Get off the floor."  Her fingers pluck at his shoulders.

Preston pushes himself back up slowly and sits on his heels.  He glances at her.

"Come back here," she says, pointing at the corner of the couch.  "Sit."

A full minute passes until he does as she asks.  Then he leans back, almost reclining.  His breathing finally begins to slow.  He shuts his eyes.

Mary relaxes next to him.  They are very close.

"Do you have nightmares a lot?"

"No," he says, grimacing.  Then, he makes a small contradictory gesture with his hand.  "Well...sometimes..."

"Since you've stopped the drug?"

He looks at her.  "Yes."

"It happens."  Mary gives him what she hopes is a reassuring glance.  "Off the Prozium.  You just have to find your new balance."

She is surprised when he laughs harshly.  "If only it were that simple."

"What do you--?"

"Forget it," he cuts her off, scrubbing at his face with his hands.

His rejection hits her like a slap, but she is past the point of worrying about herself.  She reaches out to brush the tangled hair from his brow.

"Don't."  

He grabs hold of her and the abrupt move throws her off balance.  She falls against him heavily, their faces only inches apart.  

His gaze flows against hers in the weak light.  He does not push her away.

"Did they..." she whispers.  "Did they hurt you while you were in the Confessional?"

Preston goes completely still at the question.  She knows he wants to lie but something keeps him from doing so.

"Yes," he finally says.

"Was it bad?"

He looks her dead in the eye.  "I let the mother of my children be burned," he says softly.  "I shot my best friend in the face at point-blank range.  How _bad_ could it possibly be?"

The pain in his eyes is lacerating.

Oh no, she thinks, heart aching.  

Most people when they come off the Prozium are only too willing to disavow any responsibility for who they were before.  But not Preston.

It seems there is no end to the depths of his character.

Mary can feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath her.  One of her hands is lodged against the steady beat of his heart.  Her fingers flex experimentally, pressing against his flesh.

She hears him draw a breath.  Feels the quickening of his pulse.  Glancing at him, she sees that he is watching her from beneath his lashes.  Staring at her mouth.

Desire heats in her blood like molten gold; insidious, seeping through her entire body.  Mary wants to know this desperately.  Needs to feel him -- to assuage his hunger with every breath that she takes.

Back in her cell, she was ready to burn without challenge.  Now she is here.

No matter what else happens, she won't give up.  This is still another chance to fight back -- to be alive.  To be alive with him. 

Preston seems to sense what she feels.  And yet, he is hesitant.  Shadows crease the sharp contours of his face.  She can see indecision and a certain degree of expectation.

He is waiting.  Waiting for her.

Her heart slams against her ribs.  Mary takes a deep breath and lowers her eyes for a moment before staring deep into him.

"Preston," she says softly.  "Why this?  Why...me?"

"Don't you know?" he asks.  Then, slowly, deliberately, he says:

"Look at you."

In an instant, Mary is transported -- back to that terrible morning when he burst with the sense team through her door.  She remembers it all.  Her panic, her fury.  The other Cleric, Brandt, with his insolent gaze.  Preston's contempt -- the thunder of his voice as he railed at her.  

And the way he threw her into the wall, into the mirror, coming all the way up against her.  The glass was cold as ice on her skin; his breath a hot caress along her throat. 

"Look at you," he had said.  Their eyes touched in the mirror...

Look at you.

Mary gapes at him, speechless.  

Holy fuck, she thinks.  She was the first.  

There, in the most dangerous place -- amidst the ready weapons and the blank stares -- she was the first one he saw without the lie.

Suddenly, it all makes sense.  How he fought.  _Why_ he fought.  The way he got out -- the deadly game he is playing with the Ministry.  He is playing for his children.  

He is playing for her.

She kisses him then -- hot, desperate -- saying things with her body that words cannot express.  Preston has no clue how to respond, but he doesn't hold back.  Lips glide and firm, throbbing with the pressure of unchained need.  

At length, he pulls away, breathless.  Terrified, she thinks.

He holds her off, fingers slipping beneath the ribbon at her throat.  He tugs.  The soft velvet falls away, leaving a trail of fire along her skin. 

"Mary," he gasps.  "I can't...I don't know what to do."  

Words she never thought to hear a Cleric use.

She laughs -- a husky, unrestrained sound.  "Shut up, Preston.  I already know there's nothing you can't do."

His eyes widen at the familiar phrase.  He swallows hard, clearly unnerved.

Mary arches a brow and sits up, toeing off her shoes.  She eases out of the paper-thin tissue of her internment smock.  Seconds pass as she lets him look.  Fine bones, pale skin, nipples tight in the cool air of the room.  The dark, unruly mane of her hair spills down her back like water.  Her fingers brush over the sensitive peaks of her breasts before she cups a hand beneath each full curve.

Preston looks as though he has glimpsed the Apocalypse.  For the briefest instant, she smiles.

He is so utterly helpless; as lost to her as he has ever been to the drug.  Her confidence, even her delight, is something he probably doesn't understand, can't make sense of.

Victories over the Cleric are few and far between.  And this one, though small, is sweeter than most.

She bends over, hands working the buttons of his shirt.  The damp silk slides beneath her fingertips.  He reaches up, burying his face in the hollow of her throat; tasting her skin, breathing her scent.

Mary strokes his hair until he lets her go.  His shirt is open.  She draws it back with a flick of her wrist.  Glancing down, she stares at him, awed.  Her fingers trace firm muscle and taut flesh, delineated in the silver-blue shadows of night. 

The perfection of his body is another reminder of the cold grace with which he has ordered his life.  Yet she can barely keep her hands off him.  Hunger beckons -- a siren's song.  To touch, to feel -- the way she would with any of the Underground's most treasured works of art. 

Too bad this work of art is only complete when it's killing.  

But there are alternatives.  She trusts that now.  Soon he will, too.

Preston trembles as her hands skim his waistline, pausing to loosen his belt.  The buckle is cold, but his flesh is fever-hot.  

Her lips brush his chin, his jaw...the tiny scar on his neck where he made his offerings to the Prozium God.  Finally, she pauses just below his mouth.

Preston makes a small sound.  His breath is warm against her face.

He needs more.  He is desperate for more.  She wants nothing else but to give it to him.

She kisses him again -- rougher, wilder this time -- beginning to lose sight of him in her rising need.  Tensing, Mary grips his jaw, pressing her thumb to the corner of his mouth until he opens to her.  She slides her tongue against his.  The taste of him, dark and bitter, makes her head spin.  Warmth builds between her legs -- a thick, velvet stroke of longing.

He whimpers slightly as she goes deeper, penetrating him.  Sucking at his lower lip, she teases his tongue, drawing him forth.

Preston comes into her hesitantly, growing bolder when he hears her sigh of approval.  He pulls away to nip at her chin before returning once more to plunder the secrets of her mouth.

A certain giddiness overtakes her as she lets him explore, but Mary knows it is too soon for her to let go completely.  He is good, but not that good.

Yet. 

Her hands skip over his ribs.  His stomach quivers at her touch.  She teases his navel, fingers drifting to the sensitive flesh beneath it.  Preston stills, holding on instinctively.  Then, he thrusts himself against her.

A jolt of arousal rocks her and Mary sits upright again, fighting for restraint.  Her knees clutch his hips as she holds him with a glance.  

She finds his hand at her waist and tugs it free.  Her thumb slides into his palm, splaying his fingers.  She studies them intently.

He has good hands.  Strong, capable...of what she dares not think.  His fingertips, once cool, are now warm to the touch.  Mary kneads the flesh between each firm bone.  A hum rises in his throat. 

She drops a quick kiss to his palm before catching his eye again.  Then, she eases his thumb into the heat of her mouth.

Preston's eyes squeeze shut as she suckles him gently.  He moans, head twisting from side to side.  His hips roll beneath her.

The rough, salty tang of his skin fills her senses.  She nips lightly at the pad of his thumb before sliding her tongue along the bend where it meets his hand.

He is panting almost reflexively now, the fingers of his free hand running up and down the curve of her inner thigh.  Mary shudders faintly.  Her head bows, hair tumbling down around them in shining waves.  He cannot possibly know what he is doing to her, and yet...

Closer, he is drifting closer with each pass, until his thumb slips into the hollow where her legs meet.  

She is hot, wet; his fingers glide over her flesh like silk on silk.  The light, tentative touch is enough to threaten her sanity.  Mary stifles a groan when he inadvertently brushes her clitoris. 

But it is too late.  Too late to hide the pleasure of her response.  He comes back, surer this time, finding her center, stroking her firmly.  Her very pulse throbs with need. 

Mary glances down.  He is watching her, eyes half-blind with desire...and something else.  The clever heat of newfound understanding.

Fuck. 

This is all spinning much too far beyond her control.  

She goes down on his thumb once more, trying to distract him.  Then, just when he least expects it, she skates a finger along the hard, aching length of his cock.

He jerks away from her mouth, clutching her hand so tightly it goes numb.  

And then reality fractures.  He shifts, phenomenally quick.  Mary suddenly finds herself on her back.  Her wits reel.  She can scarce draw a breath before he is on her -- holding her down, parting her legs and surging into her with one swift, powerful thrust.

She swallows a cry and arches up beneath him.  Preston grabs hold of her wrist, pinning it above her head.  She lets go and he moves...driving into her smoothly...pushing her closer to the edge than she would have thought possible.  He is still fully clothed and the fabric of his uniform rasps her sensitized skin.  Her breathing turns ragged.

Fast.  All of it -- happening too fast for her to guess or think or do anything besides lie back let him fuck her into oblivion. 

His fingers roam her body; learning the shape of her, her texture, with reckless intensity.  Into the bow of her waist...along the taut skin of her belly...over the tender curves of her breasts.  She cannot help a soft moan of delight.

By now, all reason has fled.  She is conscious only of the feel of him...hot, slick...buried deep inside her.  Every draw, every thrust, grazes the desperate heart of her need -- touching a place no one has ever been able to find.  He goes there again and again.  And again.

It is too much.  She cannot wait.  Mary digs her heels into the couch and braces herself, drawing him farther, tightening all around him. 

She sees Preston's eyes widen at the sensation, thrilling at his evident wonder.  A delicate pressure builds along her spine.  

"Yes," she murmurs, brushing his cheek.  "Now..." 

Mary's fingers slide through the soft strands of his hair...tugging his head back.  She watches him come.  The sheer elation in his eyes shatters her senses. 

His climax is fierce, endless, violently complete.  He cannot see her.  He cannot even breathe.

And she feels it.  All of him.  His cock, his heart, his soul.  Her limbs convulse with a pleasure so acute it is almost pain. 

Mary grasps the broad strength of his back, nails scoring hard muscles that bunch and heave with the turmoil of their mating.  Colors dance in her vision, blazing against the darkness.  Down she goes with him, through the void, into a realm of fire and bliss and sweet release.  There, she is conscious of only one thing.  Preston.  Melting down with her in the heat of absolute union. 

He clings to her like a drowning man, his grip so tight that she fears she might break in half.  There will be bruises to mark her slender curves in the morning.

Worth the price, she thinks, gasping.  She will pay it again gladly -- as many times as he will let her.

The room quiets after a while, the stillness of early morning creeping back.  Night clogs the air as the rain falls, as if the sky is hemorrhaging all around them.  With a small sigh, Preston stirs.  He eases them both down to the length of the couch.  Stretching out, he shifts her slightly in the circle of his arms.

Despite the warmth of his body, Mary shivers against the darkness.  Preston sweeps a hand over her cooling skin.  He reaches down for his coat, drawing it over her, holding her close. 

"Not dead, Mary," he murmurs.  "Not anymore."

His voice is low -- thick with sensual repletion.  It settles warm and liquid in her limbs.  Mary's lips drift lightly over the pulse at his throat.  Her fingertips trace through tears that still linger on his cheeks.  

Tenderness blooms deep inside; a bittersweet ache in her chest.  He owns a part of her now, she thinks.  

A Cleric and a Sense Offender.  

Who would have thought it possible?

'I wanted to change the world,' the prophet Huxley once said, 'But I have found that the only thing one can be sure of changing is oneself.'

Mary tips her head back, resting it on his shoulder.  Her eyes flutter closed with understanding.

Because Preston has made his decision.  He is feeling -- for himself, for his family.  For her.  

She will not turn away from that.

And in the last moment of clarity before sleep comes, she knows they have finally found the answer.

Within their reality, the prison life has made for them, this is the only victory.

They have changed themselves.  They have changed the world.

This much is certain, she thinks.

They have won.

-fin

(Visit this story's home page at www.wintercircle.net)


End file.
